


White Walls

by Deyinel



Category: Fillmore!
Genre: Darkness' final night, Gen, I wonder if Fillmore will ever find out about this, My OCs from Darkness: Master Of Shadows, Reaper hates hospitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:08:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25251391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deyinel/pseuds/Deyinel
Summary: Follow up of Darkness: Master of Shadows. You should read that first. Reaper's escape, and Darkness' final night.





	White Walls

White Walls  
Disclaimer: I don’t own Fillmore. I have come to grips with that. But Reaper is all mine.  
Stop! This story is a follow up to “Darkness: Master of Shadows”, so if you haven’t read that yet, you might want to do so before reading this. Otherwise, this story won’t really seem to fit in this section, as none of the characters from the show appear.  
For those of you who have already read DMOS, first of all, thanks!   
Warning: this story is rated M and contains dark and depressing themes and violent death.  
See you at the bottom!

“I wish you had let the red bull take me. I wish you had left me to the harpy. I can feel this body dying all around me!”  
\- The unicorn, The Last Unicorn (movie)

White walls.  
That was all there were, all around him. Walls so white they had hurt his eyes at first. They made the room almost unbearably bright in the mornings to one who was used to soft electronic lights, and the gentle light of distant stars. The early sunlight streamed through the thick glass of the window and reflected off it like moonlight on snow, but lacking the serine peace of moonlight. And brighter, of course.   
Much brighter.   
No shadows anywhere in the mornings, no places to hide, no comfort when they came for him. He would feel their eyes on him constantly, staring, staring until he felt as though his skin wanted to crawl off of his bones and escape.  
He hated mornings.  
The bed was white. Metal coated with white paint. Sometimes he could smell it, or thought he could. It was new. The sheets were white, tucked tightly under and fastened to the bed frame. Spotless, white and stiff. He didn’t want to let them touch his skin, but he had to at night, or freeze. And he couldn’t afford to get sick, or they might have him, so he huddled into the bed every night, cringing from the alien feel, and forced himself to sleep, knowing that all too soon it would be morning again.  
There was a white dresser with one drawer only, where they had put the clothes they had given him. White, and as stiff as the sheets. His skin was pale after a life spent in the dark, but these clothes were paler. Not real. Nothing here was real, only himself. But he knew he would no longer be real if he stayed here much longer. He had seen it already.  
He had been very careful, always since he had been brought here. He did what they told him to do. When their condescending voices told him that he had been brainwashed and that they were trying to help him, he did not spit in their faces, or rip out their throats with his bare hands to spill their lying blood and bring some colour to this white place.   
He was too crafty for them.  
And he knew it would do no good. He could kill these fools easily, true, but there were many more of them; too many, and he could not get out of this room. Their deaths would grant him nothing but satisfaction, and would cost him his one chance at freedom. That was the only thought that sustained him through these days. He would escape, and he must do it soon, while he still had a sense of himself.  
The escape plan, when it came, was so simple that it made him afraid. How could such a simple idea succeed against the complicated nightmare that surrounded him? Yet it was the very simplistic nature of the idea that would make it work. There were few things to take into account. Few things that could go wrong.   
They had made a mistake, of course. They had given him the power to bring them running at any time.  
All he had to do was push the panic button.  
He chose a time in the dead hours between midnight and morning, when the building was likely only host to a skeleton staff. They had not provided him with a clock, but he had lived his life without one, and so he was used to determining the hour from the position of the stars, and from how the darkness subtly changed.   
He rarely slept at night, choosing to wait until the first gray of dawn touched the sky. At night he was more restless and he could not keep his eyes closed. The bed was too detestable at night as well, seeming almost to glow, but he forced himself to lie in it, and to pretend to sleep, in case they were watching.  
It was around three in the morning when he pushed the button. They were watching him from afar, he knew. He had not touched the camera before, knowing that it would only be replaced with something worse, but now it no longer mattered. His room was bare, but there was a metal curtain rod supporting a set of white curtains that hung limp like a fading ghost.   
First, Reaper used one of the white sheets to cover the camera, and then he wrenched on the curtain rod. It was thin metal, and broke on his third tug with a screech as its shape was tortured and twisted. The piece he was left holding was long and sharp. The sharp end glittered in the moonlight where the metal was twisted and some of the white paint had been scraped off. Then he stowed the rod underneath the bed and lay down on top. One long finger found the button and he pressed it. He writhed on the bed, hands clutching his stomach convulsively, lips tight with feigned agony.   
After only a few minutes he heard the approaching footsteps and he snatched the rod from the floor and backed against the wall. His heart beat swiftly, but his body was still. A key turned in the lock and door swung outward. A young man stuck his head through the door and Reaper struck. With one hand he seized the man’s collar and with the other he thrust the curtain rod into the man’s throat. It was not a good weapon, but it was sharp enough. Reaper twisted and felt the sharp edges tear into flesh. Blood spurted from the startled man’s neck, black against the light from the hall behind him, and sprayed across Reaper’s face and arms and down the man’s white coat. Reaper bared his teeth, tasting the metallic tang of blood, and twisted again, driving the sharp edge deeper. The man was jerking frantically, blood bubbling from his mouth, but he was already dead. Reaper dropped the heavy body to the floor but did not wait for the twitching to end.   
No doubt the man had called the hospital before coming to his room, and Reaper had very little time. He slid past the corpse and ran swiftly down the hallway. He could feel a breeze on his face, chilly where the wet blood stuck to his skin. There was a window at the end of the hallway, and this one would not be locked.

Reaper stared at Darkness in his cell. His master looked strangely helpless. He was asleep, curled on his side, the thin, gray blanket pulled over him. His right arm was held awkwardly, and there was a smooth, white cast over it from upper arm to wrist. He did not look like Darkness. He looked like a man. Reaper hovered in the corridor outside the cell, watching invisibly as Darkness’ chest rose and fell.  
He had heard them talk, in the building where he was held, about Darkness being captured, and he had thought it strange then, almost unbelievable. Darkness could not be contained; he was everywhere. He could not be held like this. He could not be captured and he could not be hurt.  
He could not be killed.  
Since escaping from his prison, Reaper had fled through the streets, free once more and invisible to those who he knew would be after him, but their talk had stayed with him, and he had been compelled to come and see for himself. And here he was.  
And there lay Darkness on the cot. Imprisoned like a common man. Bandaged with white. Asleep.  
Fury at the sight stirred in Reaper’s breast and he stepped forward silently. The cell’s lock was a fairly simple one. Reaper picked it using several small pieces of scrap metal he had found on the way. The door was open.  
Darkness must be deeply asleep, because he did not stir as Reaper stepped into the cell. And that also was unlike him.  
Reaper paused at the doorway for a moment, than pushed himself forward, hardening his resolve. The man on the bed slept on and Reaper’s eyes hardened. He had stolen a kitchen knife, and though it was still not a proper weapon, it was much more comfortable in his hand than his metal rod. It was large and sharp and it slid into the skin of the man’s neck easily, blood welling out of the wound like spring water. The man’s eyes and mouth stretched open as the wound did and he emitted a gurgling moan, but Reaper pressed one long hand over the widening mouth and tore deeper. The body shuddered and writhed and nails dug desperately into Reaper’s arm, but he ignored them. Pain was easy to ignore. As the knife scraped bone, the body shuddered again and then stilled slowly.  
Reaper withdrew his hands after a moment. His arm was bleeding where the fingernails had torn at him and his hand was slick with the man’s blood, but he felt clean; freshly cleansed.  
Darkness could not be captured, he could not be hurt and he could not be killed.  
This was not Darkness.   
His master was out there in the night, waiting for him. It was now his task to find him.   
Reaper left the cell, and the prison, leaving the man-who-was-not-Darkness behind him, lying in a pool of his blood.   
His master was waiting for him.

Grim, hmmm? Well, now you know what happened on Darkness’ last night.  
In case you’re wondering, Darkness had taken pills to help him sleep because of the pain in his arm.   
Aw, no Fillmore in this chapter. I kind of miss him. He’s lots of fun to write for, even (especially?) when he’s in a dire situation.  
Thanks for reading, and see you all next time!


End file.
